


Switch You Can't Turn Off

by craple



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Future Fic, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She gives him the sense of freedom and his own little switch to feel nothing. He does not love her still, but he's incredibly grateful to her.</p>
<p>She's complicated and a lot of things, but that much he knows. At least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switch You Can't Turn Off

**Author's Note:**

> So this is not exactly my first time writing threesome-smut or the weird description of someone's voice, but I feel nervous. Camille is my favorite character and I do not want to ruin her. Writing a threesome with her and both Simon and Raphael feels weirder though. Yet it was so fun I almost could not stop.
> 
> Warning for sexual-themes (obviously).
> 
> Takes place in the future, around two hundred years later. Where Clary and Isabelle and Jace and Alec are already dead. I never like Clary or Isabelle anyway. So yeah.

Everything changes since he became a vampire. He hears more than he needs to hear, sees more than one would ever hope to see, and feels more than even the most hyper-sensitive person with sixth sense ever wants to feel. Supposedly, he does not have a beating heart, a pair of living lungs, or properly functional brain and organs. Yet, all of his feelings are heightened and magnified; like he has some kind of bomb made out of metals tied _into_ his chest.

It's been two hundred years since he last seen his first love Clary and the woman who took his heart Isabelle—and everything feels painful ever since. His senses are burning and he drowns himself in misery and despair and thirty glasses of Russian's strongest vodka and virgins' blood. Raphael laughed at him once when they accidentally met again at one of Magnus' parties. Simon actually threw a silver knife that passed through his chest. They didn't attack him because it was funny, Raphael couldn't feel a thing, and they're not that stupid to attack him, knowing the Mark of Cain still there anyway.

"Lost in thoughts, young Cain?" a sweet, _sweet_ voice; so mockingly _sweet_ like honey and sugar breaks his train of thoughts. His head snaps back instinctively, his posture tense. Simon knows that voice, perhaps better than anyone. A voice so sweet that it could melt the coldest ice or revive the dead back to life; a beautiful voice that rhymes like soft breeze and harp and golden bells.

When he doesn't answer, the owner of the voice smiles and puts one finger on the corner of her red plump lips. She's not wearing any lipstick or make-ups, and her hair—softer than silk, shines brighter than gold under the dim light of his lamp, thick and long like a golden waterfall—is mussed and ruffled. Her big emerald eyes, so bright yet so dark, glint in mischief as her fingers tap her hips repeatedly. He notices that she's not wearing anything but his shirt and ruby-colored underwear.

"Come here," she says, invitingly and seductively, in that beautiful voice of hers. He walks to her because there's no threat or anything hostile about her right now. He walks to her because even after two hundred years, she still has that kind of effect where he wants nothing but do whatever she tells him to do and please her in any way he could.

She grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him to his bedroom. The door opens and he sees Raphael still there, completely naked under the covers. He raises his brow at the older vampire questioningly, but he just shrugs and moves a little to give them more space.

The black shirt and dark jeans that he wears— _wore_ —have been torn apart easily by Camille's _nails_. She pushes him onto the bed beside Raphael and straddles him; her hips roll against his in a hypnotizing way, her nails dig into his shoulder blades, drawing fresh blood. He lets out a soft grunt of disapproval before pushing her down harder onto his hips. Beside him, Raphael frowns, watching them intently with his dark black eyes until Camille's fingers—long slender fingers, pale and cold and sharp like daggers—cup his chin. She pulls him to her and kisses him senseless, while her hips are moving against Simon's.

He asked her once, how to turn off his emotions. She laughed, just like Raphael, and told him it wasn't something they could turn on and off like a switch. But she could teach him of something she taught Raphael once, teach him how to feel so complete and heavy and hot like he's burning and _alive_ to the point of not being able to feel _anything_ at all. He told her that's not what he wanted but she asked him, _commanded_ him to trust her.

There's something about Camille that makes him _obey_ her every word like a lost little puppy. Something about the way her voice rings, not exactly high-pitch or too low or the regular-boring sound. Hers is an upbeat kind of voice with a little bit of jazz and classic; so beautiful that he _almost_ does not notice the grim and dark song playing on the background. She purrs softer than a cat, barks when she's angry but it sounds sensual, hisses when she's impatient, every single word that comes from her beautiful pink lips dripping with venom, yet it sounds elegant. When she hums, she sounds better than all those shitty singers he listened to once, and when she sings, she sounds and looks so breathtaking that he wants nothing but to listen.

Their position change now; slightly different, with him sitting and Camille's on his lap and Raphael behind her. He kisses and licks and bites her neck, leaving red marks that will disappear in a minute or so, he's sure, while his tongue creating long wet trails below her ear down to her dead pulse. She turns her head sideway, giving him more access as she moans into Raphael's dry lips and presses down onto Simon's lower region harder.

His fingers work swiftly on the buttons of her shirt (it _was_ his, she tells him) as his free hand palms her crotch. She grounds into his hand and makes a beautiful mewling sound on the back of her throat and he wants to record it and listens to it all day. Raphael wants to hear it too, he observes, because his hands move to cup her breasts and he's nibbling her ear.

Camille is like a really simple question with a lot of complicated answers. She sets him off and alive then leaves him numb and _dead_ and _cold_ afterward. He does not complain because it feels strangely-right and intoxicatingly _perfect_.

She gives him the sense of freedom and his own little switch to feel nothing. He does not love her still, but he's incredibly grateful to her.

She's complicated and a lot of things, but that much he knows. At least.


End file.
